


A Flor de Piel

by faikitty



Category: Tales of Xillia
Genre: Angst, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-26
Updated: 2014-10-26
Packaged: 2018-02-22 15:36:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,876
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2512859
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/faikitty/pseuds/faikitty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If you’re sad, get drunk.</p>
<p>If you’re lonely, get drunk.</p>
<p>If you’ve betrayed your friend—who, by the way, you’re in love with—multiple times and the gravity of the situation you’ve put yourself in and the horrid nature of your character has finally set in and feels as if it’s crushing you, get drunk.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Flor de Piel

**Author's Note:**

> Based on a conversation between a friend and me.
> 
> Title is from a Spanish idiom which translates to “like the flower of skin” and pertains to raw emotion and sensitivity. I suppose it’s somewhat akin to the English phrase of “wearing your heart on your sleeve”.

“Alvin.”

It takes his hazy brain a few seconds to register his own name, spoken by a voice soft but concerned. He slowly turns to see Jude looking at him with worry and pity mixing on his face.

It makes Alvin hate him.

“Juuuuuude,” he drawls, throwing back another shot. It burns in the best way as it travels down his throat, and he casts a grin at the boy. “Come to retrieve the prodigal son so he can betray you again?” He sets down his glass and motions roughly at the bartender to fill it once more.

Jude sits, puts a hand over the glass, and shakes his head at the man behind the counter. “I’ve come to retrieve my _friend_ ,” he says quietly.

Alvin snorts incredulously and tries—and fails—to swipe his glass back. “Friend. Yeah, right. _Friend_. Even you think I can’t be trusted.” He stands and starts to walk away, but the room spins and his muscles go weak.

When his head clears, he realizes Jude is holding him up, having caught him before he could hit the floor. The boy hoists Alvin’s arm over his shoulder and holds him tight when he tries to pull away. “You’re making a scene. Stop it,” Jude orders, a small amount of exasperation coloring his voice.

And Alvin does, stilling at the forcibly patient, distinctly doctor-like tone. He goes slack and lets himself be carried from the tavern, feeling like a sack of garbage both literally and metaphorically. The cold air that greets his face when he’s dragged through the door makes him flinch, arms tightening around Jude automatically. He feels Jude’s do the same, but he expects it is—no, he _knows_ it to be—nothing meaningful. Just an automatic reaction, same as his own.

Alvin focuses on his footsteps for awhile as they make their way back to the inn. It’s easier like this. His head is too foggy to think clearly anyway, and he doesn’t _want_ to think, not about the way Jude is holding him so tightly or how easy it would be to confess what he feels right then and there.

Eventually the ground smooths out, and even drunk, Alvin has no choice but to acknowledge the elephant in the room.

“Why’d you come back for me?” he asks, his words all jumbled together in his reluctance to say them.

Jude doesn’t falter in his steps. He just keeps going like he always does, dragging Alvin alongside him. “Why?” he repeats. “I couldn’t very well leave you in the tavern for the night. Everyone else is asleep already, so I figured I should make sure you were okay.”

“Make sure I was okay? Or make sure I hadn’t run off again?”

Jude gives him a sidelong glance. “Only to check on you. Although I’ll admit, Elize did raise that concern. I don’t think even you can blame her for that though.”

No. He really can’t. “Why weren’t _you_ worried I’d desert you again?”

“Because I trust you,” Jude replies simply.

Alvin’s anger flares once more, and he stands on his own, pushing Jude back roughly. “You trust me. You _trust_ me. What a bunch of bullshit.” His hands curl into fists at his sides. “Don’t lie to me. _I’m_ the liar. I know when you’re lying, and you’re lying _now._ You were sent to get me because you were worried I’d leave again.” He curses internally at his slurred words, a sentence that size being too much for a mind that’s barely there. “You don’t trust me.” Jude’s stung expression at the words forces him to drop his gaze.

“But I _do_ trust you.”

Five words, and they hurt more than any blade ever could—and for no obvious reason either. He ought to be glad to still have Jude’s faith after all that he’s done, but instead, he finds himself saddened and angered by it. “I don’t understand,” he mutters, and he bows his head. His arm falls back across Jude’s shoulders, and he lets the boy continue helping him back to the inn.

He feels Jude laugh quietly, chest rumbling against him. “You don’t have to. It’s true. That’s all you need to know.”

Alvin _wants_ to get mad at that, wants to yell at him and accuse him of being unable to explain anything. But he can’t. When he glances up, Jude is wearing a furtive smile. He looks as if the weight of Alvin as he clings to him is both physically and mentally insignificant. _He’s too honest for his own good_. It’s late; Jude’s eyes are tired, but they’re still warm like melted amber and Alvin can feel himself getting trapped in them. _Someone will take advantage of that damned precious innocence someday. They’ll corrupt you_.

All at once Alvin is all too aware of how close they are to each other. Every point of contact seems to burn pleasantly, and if he had the dexterity to do so, he’d jump Jude then and there. But if he had the dexterity, he knows he’d lack the mental strength. Not having the physical capacity to act doesn’t shut down his thoughts, however, his head filled with visions of Jude arching beneath him with hands clutching the sheets in his pleasure.

If he can’t get his feelings across through words… _Maybe action will work_ , he decides as the inn comes into view.

* * *

 

Jude is taken off guard when they enter the small room. He’d been expecting to get Alvin into bed then leave; he wasn’t expecting to be attacked.

Alvin falls onto him as if he’s only slipped, knocking him onto the bed without even a modicum of grace. Jude’s confusion is overtaken quickly by fear as he’s half-smothered beneath the mercenary. Fear and… something else. _Lust_? he wonders briefly as Alvin covers his face and neck with kisses. It takes all of his strength not to return them, especially when the mercenary’s teeth tug at his sensitive skin.

“Alvin— Alvin, stop it,” he forces out, struggling in vain to force the bigger man off of him.  He gasps quietly as a hand is slipped below his belt, followed by a sound of conflicted wanting. He grabs the straying hand in his and holds it to keep Alvin from trying to return there.

Alvin, in return, only pushes their lips together clumsily in a caricature of a kiss, teeth clacking together painfully. He doesn’t seem dissuaded by his failure; he continues to try to kiss Jude, who turns his head away with a soft hiss as his shirt is pushed up.

Jude hates the way even these uncoordinated, drunken touches make his heart race and heat pool in his belly. It would be easier to give in and let Alvin have his way with him. It’s what _he_ wants too, after all.

But not like this.

“Alvin!” Jude finally succeeds, not in pushing him away but in sliding out from beneath him. He retreats to safety a few feet away, his breathing heavy and expression wary. His face is flushed in the dim lamplight of the room. He sees bruises coloring his skin, accidental ones from Alvin’s clumsy hands and intentional ones from his teeth. He pulls his shirt over them, blush renewed, and eyes Alvin warily.

Alvin stares at the empty sheets underneath him for a few seconds before sinking onto the bed and burying his face in the pillow. _Crying?_ Jude wonders with a twinge of guilt. No. Only embarrassed and angry. “Why not?” Alvin asks, voice muffled by the cloth.

“You’re drunk,” Jude murmurs. “You don’t know what you’re doing.”

Alvin lifts his head slightly and turns it to glare with glazed, accusatory eyes. “That’s an excuse,” he snaps, and Jude shakes his head, his own amber eyes filled with a hurt he cannot place.

“It isn’t. You’re so drunk you won’t remember this tomorrow. I won’t take advantage of you like that,” he explains quietly, turning his gaze toward the dusty floorboards as his heart finally stills. “I’m sorry.” He hears the shuffling of blankets and glances up to see Alvin’s back turned to him, sheets messily balled up around him. “I should g—“

“I love you. Damn it, Jude.”

Those simple, barely audible words seem almost painfully loud in the quiet room. Jude opens his mouth to respond, face burning. He closes it once more when he realizes his eyes burn too, though he doesn’t understand why. Perhaps it’s the fact that Alvin won’t say it when he’s sober, and even drunk, he can’t look at Jude. Or maybe it’s because _he_ wishes he could say it back even as the words die in his throat.

“Alvin…”

“Don’t. I know.”

Jude has the vague feeling that something in his chest might have malfunctioned at that. He spends a few minutes in silence, too trapped in his own head to really respond. Alvin doesn’t move while he thinks, and the sight of his back seems to cut him off from Jude entirely. “No. Alvin, I… I _do_ , it’s just…” _It’s just that you’re drunk, and I want you to_ remember _when I tell you that I…_

Jude’s thoughts and words alike are cut off by a quiet snore from Alvin’s direction.

“…wait,” Jude says after another few seconds of silence. “Did you really _fall asleep_?” He’s answered by another snore, and for a moment, the wall seems to Jude like an excellent place to slam his head. He sighs and closes the distance between them, pulling the covers over Alvin more fully. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to do with you.”

Jude stands once more and starts toward the door, but a noise from Alvin gives him pause. “Stay” is the sad request that leaves the mercenary’s lips.

And Jude does. He sits down hard on the edge of the bed before he can think to do otherwise. He manages to hold himself back, doesn’t reach out a hand to touch Alvin’s cheek even though he wants to. He can’t tell if the other man is still sleeping. Alvin’s chest rises and falls rhythmically, and Jude begins to wonder if the word was the product of a dream—his or Alvin’s, he can’t say.

He could probably leave. Alvin looks to be unconscious; he wouldn’t notice.

But Jude doesn’t.

Instead, he _stays_. The night air is cold and Alvin’s bed is warm. Jude can’t seem to find a reason to leave it. He studies the cracks in the ceiling and walls, following them down to Alvin’s face. The man has lines of his own etched into his skin, brows knit together and lips downturned as he slumbers. They make him look older than he is, a clear sign of what he’s been through. Jude wishes he could ease the pain a little, but as things stand right now, he seems to be making them worse. “I’m sorry,” he whispers. _I love you too_.

Jude leans over Alvin and trails feather light kisses from his cheek to his lips. Someday he’ll find the courage to respond with all his being. He hopes that by then, Alvin will find the strength to confess without alcohol in his bloodstream.

For now, this will do.


End file.
